


Resurrection

by Shwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fix-It, Gen, Guilty John, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), Hurt Sherlock, Sad John, Sad Sherlock, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:57:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13720098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shwatson/pseuds/Shwatson
Summary: The story starts from where John sees Mary's video and ends a few moments after the hug. I am crap at summaries, so better you guys read it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One year has passed since Season 4 has aired and I am still very pissed off with John Watson for what he did to Sherlock in that mortuary. The episode strictly deserved a scene where John apologized to Sherlock for his ruthless behavior and we didn't get a scene like that. 
> 
> Why not write it then?

** CHAPTER 1 **

 

_“….When I am gone, if I am gone, I need you to do something for me…..”_

Tears welled up in his eyes once again. “You didn’t need to go in the first place,” he thought, “We could have stayed together. You didn’t need to take the bullet for the selfish psychopath. He made a vow to keep you safe. He swore it.”

But she wasn’t there anymore to read his thoughts and snuggle close to him, wrapping him with her tantalizing comfort and warmth. The video kept reminding him that she had been there once for real, her soothing voice and beautiful smile had made his heart shine not so long ago and it was never going to happen again. She would no longer be there when he would need her, he would never have the chance to confess that he had let her down, he had broken her trust and he was being ripped apart every moment by that guilt. He would never know if she would’ve forgiven him after knowing the truth, if she would have thought of him the same way, loved him all the same. She was gone, forever. She was dead because of the person she so much confided on. She was still apparently confiding on him even after that failed excuse of human being had failed her, broken his vow that he had so proudly taken in front of lots and lots of witnesses.

Anger boiled inside John Watson once again at the mere thought of Sherlock Holmes.

_“….Save John Watson…..”_

John scoffed in disgust. He was having to endure this _because_ of the man Mary was asking to do the job. Had he been away from his life, had he stayed actually dead, Mary could still be alive. Why had he come back when all he had had in his mind was to break John beyond repair? What joy did this sick psychopath get in breaking him again and again and again?

_“…..Save him Sherlock. Save him. Don’t think anyone else is going to save him, because there isn’t anyone. It’s up to YOU……….”_

That stirred something in him for some unknown reason. No matter how much he hated it to admit it at the moment, the fact _was_ _indeed true._ It had always been Sherlock Holmes who had saved him, from the very first day of their association. No one else, but Sherlock Holmes, though right then a part of him, even if very tiny, wished that it had been _anyone but Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock had cured John’s limp within a couple of hours. He had given John a purpose to live again, the thrill he was abnormally attracted to, the adrenaline rush of adventure he had so badly craved for, the battlefield he had missed so much. Sherlock had given him the heavenly welcome touch of human interaction and friendship when he had needed it to get out of his depression and loneliness.

Sherlock Holmes had jumped off a roof, spent two long years to dismantle all threats that intended to take John’s life.

Sherlock Holmes had killed a man, become a murderer, a criminal, one of them he had been fighting against all along his life, to keep John safe.

No matter how much John hated to admit, he indeed had no one else, but Sherlock.

Why hadn’t he saved Mary then? Why hadn’t he kept his vow?

_“If Sherlock Holmes dies too, who will you have then?”_ Mrs Hudson’s reprimand floated inside his head for a moment. Hang on, Sherlock was not going to die, he was indestructible, why had the thought come in her mind then? What had he been up to?

_“….But I do think you’re gonna need a little bit of help with that, because you are not exactly good with people. So here’s a few things you need to know about the man we both love, and more importantly what you are going to need to do to save him…..”_

John felt a tingling rise of fear and something more, something he couldn’t figure out, something very close to insight, in his stomach. What was he going to know next? He had a nagging feeling that he wouldn’t like it whatever it was going to be.

_“It’s not a trick. It’s a plan.”_

_“What? What plan?”_

_“I am not telling you.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Because you won’t like it.”_

The conversation from that morning played in John’s mind.

Things were starting to get clear to John, like the pieces of puzzle falling into places.

_“……John Watson never accepts help, from ANYONE, not ever. But here is the thing. He never refuses it. So, here is what you are going to do……”_

No.

Not again.

John couldn’t think of anything except Sherlock’s bleeding face, gut wrenching pain and _guilt_ pouring out of  his eyes, his curled up form on the floor of the mortuary, his shaken inhales, his groans of agony, and lastly _“Let him do what he wants. He is entitled….”_

God no. If what John was guessing was going to be proven right, John didn’t know how he was going to deal with that.

_“……You can’t save John because he won’t let you. He won’t allow himself to be saved. The only way to save John is to make him save YOU……”_

Suddenly the air in the room felt so thick and John couldn’t breathe. His chest felt so tight and his knuckles burned.

Kick after kick after kick.

Sherlock huddled on the floor, on the puddle of his own blood, taking John’s monstrous assault.

Sherlock not fighting back, not even defending himself, _welcoming_ his kicks and punches.

His eyes when he had looked up at John, begging for forgiveness.

Sherlock breaking apart into pieces after John had confirmed that he indeed believed that Sherlock had killed Mary.

John took a shuddering inhale. “Save him from what,” he thought, “ME?”

_“….Go to hell, Sherlock. Go right into hell and make it look like you mean it….”_

No.

**NO**.

John buried his face in his palms; his shoulders sagged, tears threatening to spill out once again. But he had to listen till the end. He had to know how much of a monster he had become and how much guilt and remorse were waiting for him.

 Face still buried, he continued listening to Mary’s voice. He couldn’t look at her.

_“…..Go and pick a fight with a bad guy, put yourself in harm’s way…..”_

It took all the will power John had to resist the urge to wail.

How would he _look_ at Sherlock again?

_“…If he thinks you need him, I swear, he will be there.”_

The video ended.

Culverton Smith.

Sherlock’s words, _“….this is the most dangerous, the most despicable human being that I have **ever** encountered, when I tell you this, this MONSTER must be ended……”_

Sherlock was alone in that hospital injured and unconscious.

Sherlock was alone in that hospital injured and unconscious because _John_ had put him in there that way.

Sherlock was _alone_ in _Culverton Smith’s_ hospital injured and unconscious because _John_ had put him in there that way.

_“…I might even move him to my favourite room…”_

Culverton’s words before guiding them towards the mortuary back in that morning, _“I want to show you my favourite room.”_

OH GOD.

John sprang up from the chair and rushed out of the living room.

He already had his best friend’s blood on his hands; he was NOT going to have his _life_ as well.

John had never driven that fast before.

With each turn he kept joining all the pieces in a whole, and the nasty somersault of guilt and fear in his stomach grew stronger and stronger.

Culverton Smith twisting the head off the Barbie doll with monstrous ferocity, snapping its head apart from the body.

The icy chill of apathy in his eyes when he had been showing the TD-12 drip bags.

The inhuman glitter of delight all over his face when he had been playing with the corpse’s jaws in that mortuary.

That very mortuary where John had crushed the best and wisest man he had ever known, his _lifeline_ , into dust with his own bare hands, torn apart the heart which only he knew how strongly and how _truly_ existed beneath all those obnoxious layers of mechanicality and self-implied  sociopathic detachment.

That very mortuary where he had left Sherlock all alone, bleeding and in severe pain, after beating the life out of him when he had clearly been having a violent relapse after weeks of surviving just in caffeine and drugs.

That very mortuary where Sherlock had been begging for mercy through each cry and grunt of pain, and John had kept tormenting him, completely ignoring his pleading groans. How many ribs had he broken?

John slammed his fists on the steering wheel when he had to stop at a street light. He needed to reach Sherlock, he _had to._

Greg had assured him that Sherlock was safe, but he knew better. Sherlock was anything _but_ safe. His safety had been being compromised since that day he had had to stand at Bart’s rooftop, and John had failed again and again and again to guard the man who kept protecting his friends by being alone and burning up. Even worse, he had kept asking for more and more and more and Sherlock, that _utter idiot_ , had kept offering and offering and offering, never thinking whether he had really been that much obliged at all.

No. John had had enough of nonsense. Sherlock had almost surely died _for_ John more than once.

John was sure was hell that he would NOT let Sherlock die _because of him._

He pressed the accelerator with full strength.

 

 

Elevator seemed too slow to reach Sherlock in time. Besides, it was impossible for John to just stand idly and wait. He needed to use every single moment to do _something_ , so he took the stairs and galloped, skipping two-three steps at a time.

_‘One more miracle Sherlock,’_ John kept chanting in his mind like a mantra, _‘Once more, just this last time. Do NOT die. Please stay…. Please….’_

Because John knew for sure that from the next time he would not need a miracle to keep Sherlock alive. _HE_ would be there.

The way from the corridor to the door of Sherlock’s room was the longest and most agonizing distance that John had ever had to cover. _‘God…. Please stay…. ‘_ He kept chanting in his mind while rushing hurriedly towards the door. He twisted the knob and pushed forward.

The door didn’t open.

John twisted the door knob twice more, with more pressure.

The door still didn’t open.

He could hear muffled sounds, a more erratic than normal beating of the heart monitor and some whispers and that was _not_ Sherlock’s.

_Who was in there?_

John’s eyes frantically searched for something, _anything, anything at all_ , and finally stilled on the fire extinguisher.

It would have to do.

While positioning himself in front of the door again, he could clearly hear the steady and loud blearing of the heart monitor.

**NO.**

He was entirely sure that he didn’t even possess the strength with which he rammed the extinguisher on the door and stumbled forward inside the room as the lock broke and the door smashed open.

The gut wrenching haul of Sherlock for one precious breath and Culverton Smith jerking away from him told everything John needed to understand, how close he was to lose the man, who wouldn’t hesitate to lose himself into hell for saving the blogger he would be lost without, to that despicable monster.

He could have had his way with Sherlock quite successfully had John been a second late.

Anger, red, hot, fierce anger welled up and engulfed John’s entire being.

_Nobody_ dared to lay a finger on the man lying on the hospital bed, still gasping painfully, and snatch him away from John’s life.

Nobody, _not a single one_ , dared to _kill_ Sherlock. _Not even Sherlock himself._

John surged across the room, lunging forward to Culverton smith, he wouldn’t spare that man anywhere near Sherlock, bundling him away.

“WHAT WERE YOU DOING TO HIM?....”

 

After Smith was taken care of, the mystery of the recording devise was revealed, Sherlock’s saline was changed, the settings were restored and Sherlock and John were finally alone in the room, deadly quiet again except the beeping of the heart monitor, John couldn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock and Sherlock kept avoiding John’s gaze pointedly, guilt and _sadness_ still evident all over his face and it twisted a knife painfully inside John’s heart, although he was no longer sure if he even had one in the first place.

He took in each scar, each bruise, each stitch and Sherlock’s blood-shot eye. The night of their first case together sailed through his mind.

_“That’s how you get your kicks isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever!”_

_“Why would I do that?”_

_“Because you are an idiot.”_

What had happened to the Sherlock who used to do almost everything to prove his intellect and superiority of mind? What had happened to that vibrant, enigmatic man, full of life all the time, who used to crave for the thrill of the chase and food for his brain and nothing else? What had happened to the man who had believed that caring about people would _not_ help saving them?

John had once doubted on Sherlock’s humanity, later though, he had learnt how much Sherlock actually cared beneath that stupid sociopathic façade. But he had never understood properly why Sherlock had chosen to stay detached from that _caring lark_. But sitting in front of the hospital bed, taking in the battered form of the man who had once been so bright and brilliant and full of enthusiasm, but was nothing but shattered pieces any longer, John finally understood why.

It was not because if Sherlock cared, it wouldn’t help saving others.

It was because if Sherlock cared, it wouldn’t save _him_. Sherlock was a man about extremity. He either cared too much, with his whole existence or he didn’t care at all. “In between” was a word that couldn’t be found in his dictionary.

_“…..And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that….”_ Sherlock had said in his speech.

Mary hadn’t kept that part of her promise though, neither had John.

Sherlock had. With the expense of his own life, _repeatedly_ , Sherlock had kept his vow.

No. Enough of it. Absolutely enough of Sherlock playing the lamb for sacrifice and John being fine and oblivious and Sherlock not even thinking to complain for once. One loss in a lifetime was John’s limit and He had already lost twice.  He wasn’t going to allow another one. Not the loss of _Sherlock._

“John?” The hoarse whisper broke the spell of introspections. Sherlock was still avoiding looking at him.

He tried to answer but couldn’t because of the heavy lump formed inside his throat.

“Hmm?” He managed.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock quickly stole a glance at him and looked down again.

It took all the self-control John had to stay on his chair and not wrap Sherlock in a fierce hug. He reached out for Sherlock’s wrist but stopped midway. He couldn’t touch Sherlock when he was still sore and in pain _because of him_.

“Go to sleep. You need it.” John stood up and was almost out of the room when that hoarse whisper stopped him.

 “John?”

John had never thought such amount of hesitation and plea could be poured into a single word. He turned around. Sherlock was looking at him. Fear of rejection glistening in his eyes.

“Yeah alright…” John moved back in and sat on the chair again. He didn’t need to be a consulting detective to understand what Sherlock wanted but was afraid of asking.

“Go to sleep,” He said, _‘I am never going to leave you again’_ remained silent.

When Sherlock drifted off to a tired slumber, John looked at him and smiled sadly.

“You are still an idiot. A bloody idiot.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still believe John Watson has that "Sherlock's Blogger" in him somewhere and he can be what he was before the fall once again.

** CHAPTER 2 **

 

“I cheated on you, Mary.”

There.

He had said it.

He had let out what had been eating him up, slicing his entire beings with angry lacerations of guilt, sorrow and regret. He had started it and no one was going to stop him anymore.

 It didn’t matter if the woman he was seeing in front of him, disbelief and hurt starting to cloud her beautiful bright eyes, wasn’t real. It didn’t matter if it was just a trick played by his deluded mind, an easy way out that he had made up so that he could avoid the merciless stakes of loneliness jabbing into his heart every moment. He _needed_ to tell her, and he would, even if she was actually not listening. So he continued, ignoring the piercing gaze of Sherlock.

He couldn’t look at him at the moment; he would crumble into dust if he met his gaze. He had never thought Sherlock could express all the trust he had on him, even if he wasn’t worthy of it, by just looking at him. He had no idea how the Sherlock could still have the guts to be in the same room with him. He so much wanted that trust, that _‘Don’t be an idiot. John Watson is my friend. John Watson never cheats.’_ shining dangerously in those eyes, to be the absolute truth, but he had ruined it. He had completely ruined it and he couldn’t undo it.

Better face it then.

“There was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I’d been playing with Rosie. And this girl just smiled at me.”

He looked up at Mary, expecting to see the bitter condemnation or anger or _something_ in her eyes, but he saw nothing. Her eyes were void, empty of any kind of emotions. Was that how Sherlock’s eyes had been when John had turned his back to him and walked away from that mortuary?

Hell, it hurt.

“That’s all it was; it was a smile. We texted constantly. You want to know when?”

Mary’s eyes just widened a bit in silent enquiry.

Hell, why was she being _so patient_?

Why was _everyone_ so patient with him always?

“Every time you left the room, that’s when. When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her form crying, that’s when.”

She lowers her head and a sad but understanding smile spreads on her face, her eyes dim. She looked like she was admitting her defeat, accepting that she had let him down and what he had done with that lady in that bus was just a mere consequence of it.

Hell, it _hurt._

Mary had hidden her past from him.

She had even shot Sherlock to prevent her history coming out.

She had fled to _take care of threats_ all alone, leaving a note for John.

She had done so many awful things in her life.

But never, _never_ had she _cheated on John._ No matter how complex and puzzling she had been, there was one thing that had been brutally true about her and that was she had _loved_ John Watson with the whole of her heart. She had stayed _Loyal._

John wasn’t sure if he would be able to keep the tears threatening to spill over his stinging eyes at bay, so he swallowed and kept talking. He had loads more to confess.

“That’s all it was, Just texting.” John’s heart clenched as he realized that it was time for the hardest part, “But I wanted more. And do you know something? _I still do._ ”

Mary didn’t show any effort to hide her tears, and her smile didn’t falter at all, rather it became more encouraging as if she knew what he was about to say and she wanted him to go on, and John felt like he was being stabbed in the guts.

His eyes were stinging painfully, and his vision was blurred, but he could pay attention to that later.

“I am not the man you thought I was; I am not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point.”

He couldn’t keep himself together anymore. It was impossible. He had practically taken a hammer and crushed himself into bits in front of Mary, he had let out what had been keeping himself together, the guilt, the world swallowing guilt and pain and remorse and he couldn’t keep himself together after it, even if he was starting to feel a slight sense of relief coursing through him. So his voice broke.

“That’s the whole point!” He swallowed the lump in is throat once again and kept going, “Who you thought I was…”

Mary nodded at him, as if saying, _“I know you are still the man I think you are. I know what you can be, and John Watson, I trust you.”_

 _“….is the man who I want to be.”_ His voice was barely a whisper, but he didn’t need to worry about that. He had said all that he had to say, he had emptied himself and he had absolutely nothing in him to go on.

She stared at Mary, still fighting back tears, bracing himself for the verdict that was to come from her.

“Well then,” Mary smiled at him broadly. That beautiful bright smile that could heal John in a moment, “John Watson, get the hell on with it!”

And then, she was gone.

It took a couple of seconds for John to realize that she was _actually_ gone and gone _forever_ , even from his imagination, and then the thought hit him.

He was alone.

He was relieved. But he was alone.

Terribly, awfully, absolutely _alone._

The dam broke, and he just burst into tears, covering his face with his palm. He couldn’t resist them anymore; he didn’t have the slightest bit of energy to fight his tears.

It was a perplexed feeling. He felt rush of relief and calm through is blood and at the same moment, everything hurt like thousand pin pricks, and the heaves of sobs wouldn’t stop and surprisingly he didn’t want them to stop at all. He was glad they hadn’t stopped.

He didn’t realize when two arms had wrapped him in a warm embrace and a chin had rested on his head softly. He got aware of the soothing warmth around him only when he heard a very familiar, but awfully vulnerable, thick voice trying to comfort him.

“It’s okay.”

And before he even knew it, he had said, “It’s _not_ okay!”

It really wasn’t. It wasn’t even remotely close to okay. The man who was comforting him at the moment was the same man whom John had beaten mercilessly and then left alone to rot and die, until Mary had kicked his guts and woken up the sense in his thick skull and stone cold heart.

“No.” The thick baritone voice mumbled again, “It is what it is.” The embrace tightened a bit.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to hold John in his arms. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to try to heal John when _he_ was the one who needed healing. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to put John together, it was supposed to be the other way round.

He suddenly realized that he had not said one thing to Mary, but then it was not about her, and to be honest John hadn’t even realized it back then.

He was not the friend Sherlock thought he was, but that was the point. That was the whole point.

The friend Sherlock thought he was, was the sort of friend he wanted to be.

And to his utterly sparkling fortune, _he still had Sherlock._ He still had his chance and he would _not_ miss it. He would do something, _everything._

Sherlock still hadn’t pulled away from the embrace. His fingers ran through John’s hair in a soft calming manner and John was feeling like all the dirt was literally being swept away form inside him. 

Sherlock hadn’t left, he never would and John would never let him anymore.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close to himself. He would never let this man down. He would not survive the loss of his life line and he would make sure in every possible way that Sherlock would stay no matter what.

John had never been the man seeking physical comfort from a friend, neither had he been very good at emotions. He found bottling them up easier than letting them out. Probably the one and only similarity he had with Sherlock.

So, it was actually surprising to him that he was leaning into the embrace Sherlock was offering him, finding the warmth of it so pleasant and soothing and calming and he felt like all the darkness he had been keeping concealed inside himself were being washed away with a gentle, soft light. May be that was how hope worked. May be that was how it felt when something was reborn after being dead for a painfully long time.

John Watson, the bravest and kindest and wisest human being that Sherlock Holmes had ever had the good fortune of knowing had been dead since the day the best man and most human human being that John had ever known had leapt off a roof top and went away.

John Watson, Sherlock’s conductor of light, had been dead for an achingly long time indeed.

He felt Sherlock’s too thin torso through the fabric of the dressing gown and the crisp white shirt. He was still so much thin, almost skin and bones, to John’s disappointment.

Well, surviving with drugs and caffeine and then being pummelled by a friend would surely do that to a person. Pangs of guilt stabbed him ruthlessly once again.

He had made his confession to Mary.

Time for the apology.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, his voice muffled as his face was buried in Sherlock’s chest.

“John?” The confused question came from above his head.

“I said I’m sorry.”

John still had no intension of pulling away. Sherlock made him feel safe, and he needed that security right at the moment or he wasn’t sure he would be able to go through the apology, because he knew for sure that Sherlock _would_ defend _him_ , and he needed a support to lean on to go through that purgatory.

“Yes I got that,” Sherlock said in his _‘Don’t be an idiot.’_ voice. Oh, how badly John had missed that even if he hadn’t realised, “But what for?” The confusion in his voice was back.

Seriously? What for?

“For what I did to you,” John swallowed, “In that mortuary.”

The long tender violinist’s fingers running through his hair stilled.

John already knew  what was coming next.

“No, John. You were totally….”

“ **NO.** ” John hissed. He couldn’t let Sherlock finish what he was about to say. He pulled away, but held on to the taller man, gripping his shoulders, looking up at his frowning face.

“I wasn’t entitled. No. You didn’t kill her and I _wasn’t_ entitled to give you all those cuts and bruises and fractures and then leave you to be strangled to death by a serial killer.” His eyes were starting to sting again, his throat feeling tight.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, and John knew once again what he would say, so he cut him off.

“No. It still doesn’t excuse what I did. I was grieving, yes, true, I was, and so were you. So, No. It wasn’t reasonable at all. Don’t do it. Don’t…” He shook his head, his voice broke and he swallowed again.

Sherlock was still looking at him, his mouth agape, brows slightly furrowed as if he had something to say to contradict John’s point.

“She saved you, remember?” He said like he was talking to a child who had been bullied for years and made to believe that his life wasn’t worth a damn.

Sherlock swallowed hard, biting his bottom lip, and then inhaled sharply.

“Mary. She saved you,” John continued, his voice soft. He _had_ _to_ get it through the incredibly thick skull of his genius best friend that his life _mattered,_ a lot, and he wasn’t supposed to play the lamb for sacrifice to fix things.

“She died so you could live. She chose to give her life to keep yours, right? You think she conferred a value in your life by saving you, but she didn’t.”

She really didn’t. Sherlock Holmes didn’t need someone to put value in his life. The man had enough of that because he mattered. _His life mattered_.

“She pointed out how much value your life already possesses and that you are _not_ to meddle with it and let yourself in the lion’s den because you don’t know how to fix things otherwise.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then his face twisted in a way that John thought he was going to cry.

“John?” It was barely a whisper, but all the emotions Sherlock could pour in that one name were enough to clench John’s heart in raw, fierce affection.

“So, _don’t you dare_ to put yourself in any kind of death trap again, Sherlock Holmes, or God help me, I will squeeze that arrogant life out of your throat!”

John’s voice broke and he pulled Sherlock in a violent hug once again, holding him tight, so close to himself.

“I am sorry Sherlock. Trust me. I really am.  God, I am _so_ sorry….”

 Tears spilled out of his eyes and he clutched the brilliant consulting detective, the one and only way to life he had, even more tightly and letting the waves of solace fill both of them.

“Hell of a made we’ve made. Haven’t we?” Sherlock murmured softly, and John could clearly hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah, bloody too much.” He replied in between heaves of sobs.

“Let’s clean it up then.” Came the reply in that thick, baritone voice and John knew that was how bliss of rebirth was supposed to feel like.

“You will clean the kitchen this time.”

“Why?” And the petulant man-child trapped in an adult body was back. Definitely a rebirth.  

“Because you are an idiot”

Both of them chuckled, still held comfortably in an embrace.

The living room of 221B had never been any more brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story. Let me know how you felt and please do feel free to rectify my flaws :)


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